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TWENTY
The rows carried on into the spring. The threat of war loomed large, both literally and metaphorically. When I think back to that time, the two are conflated in my mind. My mother attacking Matty. Margaret Thatcher readying to attack Argentina.
And in North London, more women about to die.
At school I was distracted; couldn’t focus, handed homework in late, became overly familiar with the detention room.
Mrs Coates asked me to stay behind after class, ‘For a little word, please.’
‘Is something upsetting you?’ she asked, not unkindly.
‘No.’
I was well past the age of opening up to a teacher.
‘Are you sure?’ She cocked her head, black eyes blinking behind her glasses. ‘It’s not like you to get in trouble, Sophie. And your grades are slipping. All these Bs.’
I assured her I was fine, that’d I’d try harder.
She gave me a long look. I shifted uncomfortably.
‘It’s tough being eleven. I’m not so old I don’t remember how it feels.’
That surprised me. She seemed ancient to us, in the way all adults do when you’re a kid.
Matty was different, a Peter Pan. His sense of fun. The way he horsed around. My mother hated it. Our Prisoner Game especially, anything that didn’t involve her.
‘That’s enough. Go tidy your room, Sophie. It’s a pigsty.’
‘It’s my room.’
‘In my house.’
‘The landlord’s actually. And it’s a flat.’
Later she started on Matty. I was half asleep, their voices rousing me.
‘It’s amber, thought it’d bring out the colour of your eyes.’
‘No box?’
‘Didn’t come with a box.’
A moment’s silence, louder than words.
‘It’s hers, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘You think I’ve forgotten the earring?’
‘Jesus, Ams. I told you—’
‘I know what you told me. And I know what I told you.’
‘I was just trying to do something nice. But if you don’t want the fecking necklace, don’t have it.’
‘Mrs Cohen sees you, you know? Coming home at all hours.’
